Chapter 7 - My Mother’s Second Lie
“It was my mother.”
Claire stared at the dead phone in her hand.
Neither of us moved.
Michael was the first to speak.
“You’re certain?”
“I’ve known Evelyn for twelve years,” Claire said. “That was her voice.”
I was already calling Mom.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then she answered.
“Daniel?”
I looked at Claire.
Michael moved closer.
“Where are you?”
“At the house.”
The answer came easily.
Too easily.
“Where exactly?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Answer it.”
A pause.
“My bedroom.”
“Put one of the officers on.”
Silence.
“Mom.”
“What’s going on?”
“Put a police officer on the phone.”
“I’m upstairs.”
“Then walk downstairs.”
“Daniel, I’m exhausted.”
I felt something inside me harden.
“Melissa just called Claire.”
Nothing.
“Mom?”
“What did she say?”
Not Is she safe?
Not Where is she?
What did she say?
“She said she found Dad’s original DNA test.”
Mom inhaled sharply.
There.
Tiny.
But I heard it.
“Did she?”
“Yes.”
“What did it say?”
“You tell me.”
“I never saw the result.”
“You said that already.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Then why were you demanding that Melissa give it to you?”
Silence.
Long enough.
Then Mom whispered, “Daniel, listen to me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“You told me you were at the mansion.”
“I was.”
“Were?”
“I left.”
“When?”
“A few minutes ago.”
“Why?”
“Thomas contacted me.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed.
“Where are you now?”
She didn’t answer.
“Mom.”
“I’m trying to fix this.”
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
I laughed.
I couldn’t help it.
Every conversation with my family eventually arrived at the same place.
I can’t tell you.
You wouldn’t understand.
It’s complicated.
We’re protecting you.
Different words.
Same lie.
“Is Melissa with you?”
“No.”
“Was she?”
“Yes.”
“Is Thomas?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
“Put him on.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because he left.”
“With Melissa?”
“No.”
“Then where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
I closed my eyes.
“You were with her minutes ago.”
“She ran.”
“From you?”
“From all of us.”
“What does that mean?”
Mom’s voice cracked.
“She thinks everyone is lying.”
“She’s right.”
“Daniel.”
“She’s absolutely right.”
Claire put her hand on my shoulder.
I continued.
“What does the original test say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Melissa said Victor isn’t my father.”
Mom went silent.
“Is that true?”
“I don’t know.”
“You knew there was a test.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Dad had it.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Victor might not be my father.”
“Yes.”
“But you let me believe Victor could be.”
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You could have told me the truth.”
“I don’t know the truth!”
That stopped me.
Her breathing became uneven.
“I was twenty-two when I met Victor. He was charming. Powerful. He knew everyone. He made me feel like nothing bad could happen when he was around.”
“And then?”
“Then I learned what kind of man he was.”
“What kind?”
“The kind who thought loving someone meant owning them.”
Claire looked down.
Mom continued.
“I left him.”
“For Dad?”
“No. I met Robert afterward.”
“So when I was conceived—”
“I don’t know.”
The words were barely audible.
“How can you not know?”
“Because there was someone else.”
The room went completely still.
Michael slowly lowered his pen.
I said, “What?”
Mom started crying again.
“I was young.”
“Who?”
“I can’t do this over the phone.”
“You’re going to.”
“Daniel.”
“Who?”
She whispered, “Thomas.”
For a moment I honestly thought I had misunderstood.
“My uncle?”
“He wasn’t your uncle then.”
My knees weakened.
I sat.
Claire covered her mouth.
Michael turned away, giving me a privacy that no longer existed.
“You had a relationship with Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“Before Dad?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“A few months.”
“Did Dad know?”
“Eventually.”
“Did Victor?”
“No.”
My thoughts came too fast.
Victor.
Thomas.
Robert.
My mother.
Three men.
One paternity test.
Sixteen years of lies.
“Could Thomas be my father?”
Mom didn’t answer.
“Could he?”
“Yes.”
I stood again.
I couldn’t stay still.
“Does Thomas know?”
“He knows it’s possible.”
“And he never told me.”
“He wanted to.”
“When? Before or after his fake funeral?”
“Daniel, please.”
“Did Dad know Thomas might be my biological father?”
“Yes.”
That answer hurt differently.
Robert had known everything.
And still raised me.
Still funded what I thought was my first business investment.
Except that money came from Thomas.
Still protected me from Victor.
Maybe.
Still hid the DNA test.
Maybe.
Every act of love now had a question attached to it.
“Why did Dad test himself and Victor but not Thomas?”
Mom went silent.
“Mom?”
“He did.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“There was a third test?”
“Yes.”
“What was the result?”
“I never saw it.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
“Robert refused to show me.”
“Why?”
“He said biology didn’t matter anymore.”
“That wasn’t his decision to make.”
“I know.”
“Where is that test?”
“With the others.”
“The red folder?”
“Yes.”
“So Melissa has it?”
“If she really found the original folder, yes.”
“Then why were you trying to take it?”
Mom started to answer.
A man spoke faintly near her.
I couldn’t make out the words.
“Who is with you?”
“No one.”
“That’s another lie.”
“Daniel—”
“Put whoever it is on.”
The line disconnected.
I immediately called back.
Phone off.
Michael exhaled.
“This is bigger than the house.”
I looked at him.
“The house started it.”
“No. The house exposed it.”
He was right.
If Melissa had never thrown that shoe, I wouldn’t have called Rachel.
If I hadn’t listed Westbridge, Mom wouldn’t have filed the claim.
If she hadn’t filed it, I wouldn’t have looked at the closing documents.
No Addendum B.
No Thomas.
No hidden safe.
No Victor.
No DNA tests.
I thought of Claire’s bruise.
One ugly act had cracked open thirty years of secrets.
Claire sat beside me.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I looked at her.
She gave me a sad smile.
“I’d be worried if you said yes.”
My phone buzzed.
A text from the officer handling Dad’s disappearance.
CALL ME.
I did.
“Mr. Mercer, we located your father’s Mercedes.”
“Where?”
“Parking structure downtown.”
“The same garage where Melissa was photographed?”
“Appears so.”
“Any sign of her?”
“No.”
“Thomas?”
“No.”
“What did you find?”
“A second vehicle registered under an alias connected to Thomas Mercer.”
My stomach tightened.
“He was there.”
“We believe so.”
“Anything else?”
“Blood.”
Claire heard.
Her hand tightened around mine.
“Whose?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“How much?”
“Not enough to assume a fatal injury.”
That didn’t comfort me.
“And we recovered a broken phone.”
“Melissa’s?”
“We’re checking.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
“Was there anything on it?”
“Mr. Mercer.”
“I know. Investigation.”
“Yes.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Please find my sister.”
“We’re trying.”
“What about my father?”
“Still no confirmed location.”
The call ended.
Michael said, “We need to give law enforcement everything about Victor and Thomas.”
“I agree.”
He looked surprised.
“What?”
“You expected me to argue?”
“A few hours ago, yes.”
“A few hours ago, I thought this was about protecting my family.”
“And now?”
“Now I think protecting them means ending the secrets.”
Claire squeezed my hand.
Then the doorbell rang.
All three of us froze.
The officer outside checked first.
A minute later, he returned with a small package.
“No return address.”
“Again?”
“Courier dropped it at the station and said it was for you.”
Michael frowned.
“Who knew which station was handling this?”
“Apparently whoever sent it.”
The officer opened the package after checking it.
Inside was a key.
Old brass.
A small metal tag hung from it.
WESTBRIDGE — WINE CELLAR.
I stared.
Dad’s wine cellar.
The ridiculous room he loved showing guests.
Climate-controlled.
Imported stone.
Hundreds of bottles.
I had paid to repair the cooling system twice.
There was also a folded note.
The officer opened it.
One sentence.
THE SAFE WAS NEVER THE REAL HIDING PLACE.
I looked at Michael.
“Wine cellar.”
“Police first.”
“Yes.”
This time I meant it.
Within an hour, investigators were searching the mansion.
Claire stayed home with an officer.
I went with Michael.
I didn’t like leaving her, but she insisted.
“You’re going to spend the entire drive calling me anyway,” she said.
She was right.
At Westbridge, the house felt different.
The For Sale sign still stood outside.
Red paint crossed it.
I looked at it and almost couldn’t believe that forty-eight hours earlier, selling the house had felt like the biggest decision of my life.
Inside, officers moved through rooms my family had treated like a kingdom.
The wine cellar was downstairs.
Dad had installed it twelve years earlier.
One wall held expensive bottles.
Another had stone arches and display shelves.
An investigator showed me the brass key.
“Any idea what it opens?”
“No.”
We searched.
Cabinets.
Storage drawers.
A tasting table.
Nothing.
Then Michael noticed a small keyhole beneath a wooden wine rack.
The investigator inserted the key.
Click.
The entire rack moved forward half an inch.
Nobody spoke.
Two officers pulled it open.
Behind it was a narrow door.
Dad had another hidden room.
I almost laughed.
Of course he did.
An officer entered first.
Lights came on.
The room was small.
Concrete walls.
Metal shelving.
Boxes.
Dozens of them.
Each labeled by year.
All the way to the present.
Michael whispered, “Records.”
One officer opened a box.
Bank statements.
Contracts.
Photographs.
Cassette tapes.
Hard drives.
Dad hadn’t destroyed anything.
He had archived his entire life.
Then I saw a white box.
The year I was born.
My name was written across the top.
DANIEL.
The officer stopped me before I touched it.
“We document first.”
Photographs were taken.
Gloves.
Evidence log.
Then he opened the box.
Baby photographs.
Hospital documents.
Letters.
Three sealed laboratory envelopes.
My heart began pounding.
Michael looked at me.
“That could be them.”
The investigator carefully removed the first.
PATERNITY ANALYSIS.
ROBERT EDWARD MERCER.
The second:
VICTOR SAMUEL HALE.
The third:
THOMAS ANDREW MERCER.
All three were still sealed.
Not copies.
Original laboratory envelopes.
Mom had lied.
Dad hadn’t destroyed anything.
He had hidden the results together.
An officer photographed them.
Then opened the Robert envelope.
0.00%.
Already knew that.
Victor.
0.00%.
Melissa had been right.
Victor wasn’t my father.
The room seemed to shrink.
Only one envelope remained.
Thomas.
The officer looked at me.
“Ready?”
No.
“Yes.”
He opened it.
Removed the report.
His eyes moved down the page.
Then stopped.
“What?”
He looked at Michael.
Then at me.
“What does it say?”
“Mr. Mercer…”
“Read it.”
He handed me the paper.
Probability of paternity:
0.00%.
I stared.
Robert wasn’t my biological father.
Victor wasn’t.
Thomas wasn’t.
Three men.
Three lies.
Zero answers.
Michael said quietly, “Then who is?”
I turned the page.
There was handwriting on the back.
Dad’s.
IF DANIEL EVER FINDS THIS, GIVE HIM THE BLUE FILE.
We searched the box.
No blue file.
Then an officer called from the hallway.
“We found something.”
We followed him to the far end of the hidden room.
A loose wall panel had been removed.
Behind it was a small steel compartment.
Inside sat one blue folder.
My hands went cold.
The officer opened it.
The first page was a photograph.
My mother.
Young.
Pregnant.
Standing beside a man I had never seen before.
He was tall.
Dark-haired.
Military uniform.
His arm was around her.
On the back:
EVELYN & JAMES — 1992.
James.
I turned to the next page.
A letter.
Dear Robert,
If anything happens to me, please keep Evelyn and the baby safe.
My chest tightened.
I kept reading.
Victor has discovered who I am. He thinks Evelyn betrayed him with Thomas. Let him believe it. It is safer that way.
I stopped.
Michael whispered, “Daniel.”
I continued.
The baby is mine.
My hands started shaking.
The signature was at the bottom.
James Callahan.
I had never heard that name.
Inside the folder was a military service photograph.
Captain James Callahan.
United States Army.
Decorations listed beneath his name.
And one stamped word across the personnel record.
DECEASED.
Date of death:
Six weeks before I was born.
Claire called.
I answered immediately.
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you find?”
“My father.”
Silence.
“My biological father.”
“Oh my God.”
“His name was James Callahan.”
Another silence.
Then Claire whispered:
“Daniel…”
“What?”
“That name.”
“What about it?”
“I’ve heard it before.”
I froze.
“Where?”
“Your mother.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
My pulse jumped.
“When yesterday?”
“Before Melissa threw the shoe.”
“What did she say?”
“I didn’t think it meant anything.”
“Claire.”
“She was arguing with your father in the hallway. I went looking for the bathroom and heard them.”
“What did Mom say?”
Claire hesitated.
“She said, ‘If Daniel sells this house, he’ll find out what happened to James.’”
Every person in the hidden room seemed to disappear around me.
“What happened to James?”
“I don’t know.”
Then an officer behind me spoke.
“Mr. Mercer.”
I turned.
He was holding another photograph from the blue folder.
James Callahan stood beside my father.
Robert.
Thomas.
And Victor Hale.
Four men.
Same warehouse.
Same year.
On the back was a date.
Six weeks before James supposedly died.
Underneath, Dad had written:
THE LAST MEETING.
The officer pulled one final document from the folder.
A death certificate.
James Callahan.
Cause of death:
Motor vehicle accident.
I stared at it.
Then at the photograph of my own wreck sixteen years later.
Same pattern.
Same people.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A video attachment.
I opened it.
Dad appeared on screen.
Alive.
Bruised.
Sitting in a dark room.
He looked directly into the camera.
“Daniel, if you’re watching this, you found James.”
He swallowed.
“Your biological father did not die in an accident.”
Someone behind the camera moved.
Dad’s eyes lifted toward them.
Fear crossed his face.
Then he said the words that made my blood turn cold.
“I know who killed him.”
The camera shifted.
A figure stepped into view.
Dad stared at the person.
May you like
Then whispered one name.
“Evelyn.”
